De Immortui
by IceCreamIceQueen
Summary: Staying alive just got slightly less boring...
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Hi guys! I'll be posting this in short 200-word-ish chapters. Hope you enjoy!**

 _October 2011. Series of text messages between Sherlock Holmes and John Watson._

This is all your fault. **-SH**

Thanks for waking me up. What's my fault? **-JW**

The zombie apocalypse, of course. **-SH**

Of course. **-JW**

What? **-JW**

* * *

 **BANG!**

Through the hole in Smith's head, Jim could see the door.

He'd been lied to.

Having the preoccupation with death that he did, he'd seen a fair few zombie movies. According to them, you just shot the zombie in the head and-

 **BANG!**

-it was all over.

Smith was now missing one of his eyes and half his nose, and yet he was still standing.

Jim pouted.

It wasn't fair.

And he'd be zombie meat before Moran even left the blasted flat.

* * *

Sherlock picked up on the third ring.

'It is the "Everyday Value" that you like, isn't it? You don't strike me as a "no added sugar" man.'

'What?'

John seemed to be saying that a lot these days.

'The jam, John. "Everyday Value"? I figured you wouldn't like the one in the squeezy tube."

'...'

'John?'

'...I'm still here. I- Christ, Sherlock, forget about the sodding jam. I've just seen the news. Some kind of "zombie virus"… I thought it was all a prank, but it's on BBC1 and everything...'

'Fascinating, isn't it?'

John resisted the urge to roll his eyes and go back to bed.

'How is it _my_ fault?'

'What?'

'The text, you said it was my-'

'Well, if you hadn't insisted on being "ill"-'

'Don't put "ill" in quotation marks-'

'...Sherlock?'

There was no reply.

'Sherlock?'

Nothing. Not even the sound of breathing.

'Sherlock!'


	2. Chapter 2

Maybe he was supposed to aim for the heart, instead?

Not that it mattered, when there were no bullets left.

It wouldn't be long before Smith knocked over the pile of cardboard boxes that Jim stacked in his way.

Then, there would be trouble.

Sighing, he took out his phone.

Moran? We have a situation. **-JM**

The whole 'zombie apocalypse' thing? I think it's everywhere, Boss. Not just London. There's not many of them right now, but it's getting worse. I'm watching BBC1 right now. They think it's some kind of gene mutation. **-SM**

Not to say that I'm not on the case, though. I'll do what I can. **-SM**

Do you need a car? **-SM**

I need you to stop babbling, or so help me God. **-JM**

And yes, I need a car. **-JM**

Right away, Boss. **-SM**

Uh, where exactly are you right now? I forgot where you said you were going. **-SM**

Jim groaned.

Smith groaned back.

Jim resisted the urge to groan more.

He didn't want to have a _conversation_ with Smith at the best of times, and now was no exception.

I'm in Tesco. The one on Baker Street. **-JM**

Tesco? As in, 'ordinary massive supermarket chain' Tesco? What are you doing, getting a pint of milk? **-SM**

I'm glad you've kept your sarcasm at a time like this. **-JM**

Sorry, Boss. It won't happen again. **-SM**

'Brains. Braaains…' Smith groaned.

'Oh, say something original,' Jim hissed.

What's taking you so long? **-JM**

I'm doing the shopping, Boss. **-SM**

What? - **JM**

Well, it said on the news to make sure you have provisions… **-SM**

Did I ask you to get "provisions"? **-JM**

Well, no… **-SM**

Jim pinched the bridge of his nose.

It was only 10:30.

Today was going to be a long day.


	3. Chapter 3

'John? Are you still there?'

Nothing. Not even the sound of breathing.

'John!'

Sherlock checked his phone. No signal.

How irritating.

He hung up.

Still, he had to suppose John was safe in the flat.

Safer than Sherlock was, anyway. He was surrounded. Up high, away from them, but surrounded. Standing on top of the spreads aisle had seemed like such a good idea at the time. Now, he was trapped.

The zombies were shuffling aimlessly into one another, moaning and groaning.

A scream came from the drinks aisle.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. People did like to be dramatic.

There were two options: either he stay here and hope the zombies went away, or he made a run for it.

It was a two-minute run, providing that the traffic had ground to a halt, and that the zombies couldn't run after him.

He could stay alive for two minutes, surely?

He sent John a quick text.

Making a run for it. **-SH**

Two seconds later, as he was making to jump down, his phone buzzed.

 **Message not sent. The message will send when there is signal.**

Sherlock sighed.

'Bloody hell!'

He looked down. A man with short dark hair was pointing a baguette at him, carrying a basket filled with a copy of The Guardian, a bottle of wine, two potatoes, and a four-pack of yoghurt.

'You're Sherlock Holmes!' The man said.

Sherlock didn't bother to dignify that with a response. He would have asked the man's name, but he didn't care.

Unknown to Sherlock, the man's name was _Sebastian Moran_.

 **A/N: do you want John's POV next?**


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: I believe paracetamol is called acetaminophen in the US.**

Thank God for extra-strength paracetamol.

 **RAT-A-TAT-TAT**

'Sherlock? Is that you?'

It wasn't his ordinary knock, but then again, this wasn't ordinary times.

Nothing.

'Mrs Hudson?'

The landlady had left two days ago to stay with her sister. Maybe she was back.

No reply.

 **RAT-TAT-A-TAT-TAT**

Wait.

John muted the TV. The reporter hardly had anything good to say anyway.

The noise wasn't coming from the door.

He glanced at the fridge freezer. A week ago, there'd been a nasty surprise on the bottom shelf. Sherlock had blatantly ignored the "top shelf only" rule.

 **RAT-TAT-A-TAT-TAT**

Well, it certainly was polite.

One of your disembodied hands is knocking inside the freezer. Fuck you. **-JW**

Miraculously, the message sent. Signal was back.

He should call Sherlock again-

I take it you don't need a hand, then? **-SH**

John stared at his phone in disgust.

* * *

Of all the places to be when the world was in the middle of a zombie apocalypse, Molly supposed that the morgue was the most unfortunate.

Good thing she was at home watching Glee, then.

Taking a spoon of Chunky Monkey ice cream, Molly hoped that Daphne had been shifted in today. They'd never gotten on.

Was that cruel?

Perhaps. But so was Daphne's telling Molly that she 'had the style of a blind tea towel'. Molly would never forget that.

There was a zombie apocalypse, but that was okay. She'd always been the kind of person to stockpile tins of food.

There was a zombie apocalypse on, Daphne was probably being eaten, and Klaine had finally gotten together.

Today was turning out to be a good day.


	5. Chapter 5

Moran had a pack of Petit Filous tucked under his left arm, and what looked suspiciously like two potatoes stuffed into the right pocket of his trousers.

Jim decided not to ask.

'You shoot them through the heart, see?' Moran said, gesturing to Smith's dead form beside them. 'Not the head. Funny zombies, these ones.'

'Mm,' Jim said, stepping over the body.

'You'll never guess who I saw down by the Nutella, Boss.'

'...Angelina Jolie?'

'No! Even better!'

Jim raised a brow.

'Sherlock bloody Holmes!'

Interesting. 'Where is he now?'

Moran shrugged, and then raised his gun-

 **BANG!**

The bullet grazed the top of his head, but Jim didn't flinch. Gunfire was soothing.

He turned around. A zombie- a young teenager- lay quite still on the floor.

'He's back at the flat, I suppose,' Moran said, as if nothing had happened. 'Why?'

'We need a place to crash.'

* * *

'Look, this _really_ isn't our division-'

The Chief Superintendent glowered. Lestrade shrank back.

'He has a point,' Anderson piped up. 'What are we supposed to do, arrest them?'

For once, a salient point.

'I don't care what you do,' the Superintendent growled. 'Just stop this from spreading!'

Easier said than done.

'We've got people working on an antidote, Sir,' Lestrade said, for the sake of something to say.

'Tell them to work faster!'

'Yes, Sir.'

Lestrade closed his eyes.

Where was Sherlock when you needed him?


	6. Chapter 6

**RAT-A-TAT-TAT**

The hand had been knocking consistently for about half an hour now, and John was at his wit's end. He hadn't wanted to turn the volume up on the TV, or drown the noise out with headphones, in case Sherlock knocked at the door and needed help. It would be just like him to forget his keys.

 **RAT-A-TAT-TAT**

John searched the bookshelves for an appropriate weapon. His gun would likely cause more harm than good.

He scanned the medical books. "The Handbook on Injectable Drugs" (one of Sherlock's favourites for a little "light reading"), "Principles of Neurological Surgery" , "The Molecular Biology of Insect Disease Vectors: A Methods Manual"... Ah. There it was. "The British Pharmacopoeia", used once and only once for the case "The Asthmatic Burglar". He took out Volume III. This Volume alone cost £145, but it also belonged to Sherlock, not himself, and Sherlock's finances could cover any damage. Anyway, now wasn't the time to worry about money. The thing was rather bloody heavy, and that was what mattered.

Now, how to go about this…

 **RAT-TAT-A-TAT-TAT**

Sod it.

Opening the fridge door in one swift movement, John raised the book in his right hand.

But the disembodied hand just waved at him.

John had to fight the urge to wave back.

 _What the sweet everloving fuck is going on?_

The hand moved into a "come hither" position, beckoning him forward. And for some reason, he leaned in-

 **CRACK!**

John howled, clutching his bleeding nose. The hand actually seemed to laugh at him- how was that even possible?- before leaping to the floor and scuttling under the coffee table like some grotesque flesh-covered spider.

'You. Are. Going. To. Die,' John hissed, shoving the coffee table out the way. The hand gave him a look that said, 'oh, yeah?'

'Yeah.'

John slammed Volume III of the British Pharmacopoeia down on the hand before it could even blink- well, if hands could blink.

 **THWACK!**

 **THWACK!**

 **THWACK!**

He could feel its bones breaking underneath the weight of the book, but he didn't stop. He had to make sure it was dead.

 **THWACK!**

 **THWACK-**

'Did we come at a bad time?'

And John looked up to see none other than James Moriarty standing in the doorway.


	7. Chapter 7

'Do you have a fridge?'

John didn't recognise the voice.

 _Christ, who else is coming here today? The cavalry?_

He could only stare as a dark-haired man walked into the room, carrying a pack of Petit Filous.

John raised a brow, but didn't comment. The day was weird enough already, a little more weird could hardly hurt.

'Gotta keep these cool,' the man mumbled.

James Moriarty pointed towards the fridge. John didn't ask how he knew where it was.

Blogger and Consulting Criminal both watched the man put away the yoghurts.

'Potato?' the man offered, pulling one out of the pocket of his jeans.

Moriarty sighed, giving John a look that said, _sorry about him_.

'Uh, no thanks,' John said.

The man put the potato back in his pocket. An awkward silence began.

'You're not leaving anytime soon, are you?' John said.

Moriarty winked at him, and went to sit down in Sherlock's chair. The man followed, perching on the end of the armrest. 'Put the kettle on, will you? I could just _murder_ a cup of tea.'

'What's the magic word?'

John regretted asking that as Moriarty began to bat his eyelashes at him. 'Pretty please…'

Tea would make everything better.

Wouldn't it?


	8. Chapter 8

**The person you are calling is currently unavailable. Please leave a message after the "beep", they will return your call-**

John hung up.

Mrs Hudson could take care of herself, and Sherlock too, for that matter. He should stop worrying.

Easier said than done, though.

'I'm _bored_ ,' Moriarty's henchman whined.

'You could read a book?' John suggested.

'Moran doesn't read books without pictures,' Moriarty said, not looking up from his phone. He was probably organising the deaths of three different people on three different continents.

'I have lots of medical books with lots of lovely pictures in,' John said, unsure of why he was still in the living room when he could be going back to sleep and ignoring the fact that the world was ending. 'Pretty pictures.'

'Alright, then.'

And so John spent a surprisingly not-so-terrible ten minutes showing Moran pictures of head injuries in various degrees of severity.

'This one is my personal favourite,' John said, putting his finger under the page in preparation to turn it. 'It's a bit gory though. Are you sure you want to see it?'

'I've shot many men in the head,' Moran boasted. 'Trust me, it's even cooler in real-' He grew pale as John turned the page. 'Jesus, fuck!'

'I did warn you.'

'...Can we go now, Boss? Sherlock's boyfriend is weird.'

'He's not my- oh, forget it.'

'Where would we go?' Moriarty said, fixing Moran with a smirk. 'We have everything we need here. Food, beds- I'll share with Sherlock, you can have the sofa- a shower, clean clothes… much better than my boring old flat, don't you think?' He ran a finger along the edge of the sofa. 'This place has _character._ '

'You are _not_ sharing a bed with Sherlock,' John said. 'You'll strangle him in his sleep-'

'You think _that's_ what he wants to do to me?'

John's head snapped round. Sherlock stood in the doorway, carrying several jars of jam.

'Oh, honey, you're home!' Moriarty said, leaping to his feet in one graceful movement.

'They were buy two get one free,' Sherlock muttered, putting the jam on the kitchen table, and ignoring his arch-nemesis. Moriarty didn't like that.

'How domestic of you to do the shopping,' he sneered. 'How _ordinary_.'

'You use Waitrose online delivery, Boss,' Moran piped up. Moriarty glared at him.

'Hello, brother mine,' Mycroft said, setting his umbrella down by the door. 'I thought I'd check that you were still alive.' He glanced at Moriarty.

'James.'

Moriarty gave him a nod of recognition. Moran waved.

John sighed. _When did Mycroft get here? Is Lestrade going to show up next? Molly? Irene?_

'The question is,' Mycroft said, going to the kitchen cupboards and pulling out a packet of Hobnobs, 'what are you all going to do now?'

 _Good question..._

 **A/N: should I write Mary into this or nah?**


	9. Chapter 9

'"Eat your heart out, Kate Middleton,"' Molly quoted. The episode had only come out a few months ago, but she already knew it off by heart. So long as she had her Glee, this whole thing would be bearable. She'd wanted a holiday, after all.

A helicopter landed outside her house. Molly responded by turning the volume up on the TV. Probably the police, getting the outbreak under control.

The doorbell rung.

Molly ignored it.

Her phone buzzed.

Molly checked the sender, and ignored-

 _Sherlock_.

Open the door. **-SH**

I'm safe here. x - **MH**

You'll be safer where we're going. **-SH**

And you can bring your "Glee". **-SH**

How did you know I watch Glee? x **-MH**

Actually, don't bother going into deductions. Give me 5 minutes to get ready. x **-MH**

You have 3. **-SH**

* * *

George, I need you to tell me your exact location. **-SH**

Lestrade sighed. Sherlock could deduce what kind of dog a person had by the shape of their eyebrows, but he couldn't tell you anything about the solar system, or remember a basic name like "Greg". There was no point correcting him, he'd only revert back a day later.

I'm at the O2. A bunch of screaming One Direction fans have turned into groaning zombies. There's a rumour that Harry is still hooking up with one of them, undead or not. - **GL**

Pop culture references mean nothing to me. We'll be with you in five minutes. **-SH**

"We"? - **GL**

No reply.

* * *

Lestrade shielded his eyes as the helicopter landed mere feet away from the building. Mycroft beckoned.

'Hang on,' Lestrade said, 'is that James Moriarty? Why the hell is he here?'

'Gabriel,' Moriarty greeted.

'His name is "Greg"', John said, looking like he'd sacrifice himself to the first zombie he saw.

'Gregory,' Mycroft said. 'Sherlock said we couldn't leave without you.'

'You still haven't told me where we're going,' Molly piped up from the back.

'Why is he here?' Lestrade said again.

'Keep your friends close…' Sherlock mumbled.

'Just get in, Greg,' John said. 'Mycroft says he's taking us to a "safe location".

'It is safe,' Mycroft huffed. 'Mummy and Daddy are already there.'

'Yoghurt?' a man next to Moriarty asked. 'We packed spoons.'

'No thanks,' Lestrade said, climbing inside the helicopter.

 _The possibility of untold weeks stuck with this lot…_

He glanced at Mycroft.

Maybe it wouldn't be that bad.


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: thanks to hiddenhiberian for providing inspiration for this chapter!**

 _Location: Redacted_

' _Attempts at inoculation have been incredibly unsuccessful, with volunteers catching the disease within seconds of the injection. Scientists are now working on a nasal spray, believing that the infection runs in the blood, due to several reports of disembodied body parts "coming alive". Progress is slow going, and the police are urging people to stay indoors- contradicting their earlier advice to "gather provisions", which saw mass outbreaks in major supermarkets. It is thought that one tenth of the world's population has been infected by this-'_

'Hey! I was watching that!' John complained.

Molly slid the DVD into the DVD player. 'Let's watch something _happy_.' She shot a look at Moriarty, who was on his phone, probably taking advantage of what all this chaos had done to the stock market. 'Do you remember watching this with me, _Jim_?'

His eyes flicked up to the opening credits with a wince. 'There wasn't a single murder…'

'I'll watch it with you,' Moran said. 'Wish we had some popcorn, though.'

'We have tins of sweetcorn, courtesy of Molly,' John said. 'Make your own.'

John looked around the caravan with a sigh. Moriarty was on his phone, Molly was watching Glee, Moran was making popcorn, Mycroft was calling the Prime Minister, Sherlock and Lestrade were going over old cases, whilst John himself…

John was sitting on the tiny sofa, feeling guilty that he was safe in here, when he should be at the surgery with the rest of his team. Like anyone would actually go to the doctor's in the middle of an apocalypse, and he was no surgeon or midwife, but still. It was the thought that counted. What had he done to deserve to be in the same "safe zone" as minor members of the royal family?

There was a knock at the caravan door. John went and opened it.

Standing on the doorstep was a beautiful woman with short blonde hair. She looked scared but unhurt. 'I'm Mary,' she said, 'and I need a place to stay.'


	11. Chapter 11

We need to talk. **-SH**

Mycroft smiled, glancing over to Sherlock. 'We are sitting right next to each other, brother mine. Don't be so antisocial.'

Sherlock merely pointed at John, who was examining the contents of the fridge.

Or, rather, the lack of it.

Mycroft's smile slid off his face like a snake. 'Ah. Yes. Well, you see-'

'John complains that I never eat,' Sherlock interrupted, 'and yet what he doesn't appreciate, is that this is a learned behaviour. When Big Brother has already eaten one out of house and home, one learns to live with hunger.'

'Don't you think you're being a tad melodramatic-'

'Two weeks,' John said, not turning round. 'All this food was supposed to last us two weeks.' He lifted an empty jar of jam out of the fridge with a sigh. 'We've burnt through it in three days.'

'The "rations" really are unnecessary,' Mycroft assured him. 'We have plenty of food here in the base.'

John turned to face him. 'I don't even know where "here" is, thanks to the blindfold. For all I know, they might refuse to give us any more food, and it will serve you bloody right.'

'I am the-'

'-British government, yes, I know. It doesn't give you the right to eat all our bloody food!'

'You're getting quite upset about this,' Mycroft observed.

John just glared at him.

'John, why don't we take a trip down to the base, see if we could get some more food?'

Mary. The latest addition to the group.

'Okay,' John said, smiling at her. 'Let's do that.'

Sherlock and Mycroft glanced at each other: ex-assassin, using a fake name, in hiding when the outbreak happened, and… has John wrapped around her little finger.


	12. Chapter 12

_One day later_

'John!'

'Mrs Hudson! Are you okay?'

'Oh, the traffic was terrible, John. Absolutely terrible. At one point I thought it would have been faster to get outside and walk! I've never seen anything like it! And of course I forgot my phone charger, so I couldn't contact you until I got back here.' There was a pause. 'Where _are_ you and Sherlock? Why aren't you here? Why is there no food in the house? Sherlock never eats!'

'Mycroft has taken us to a safe location, Mrs Hudson. He'll come and get you right away.'

'A safe location? What is this, the Blitz? I'll tell you now what I told them then: I'm not going! Who knows who'll try to break into the flat whilst I'm away!'

'Mrs Hudson-'

'There's no point trying to change my mind, John, you know that.'

'...Let me pass you over to Mycroft. Here.'

'Hello, Mrs Hudson,' Mycroft said.

'Oh, don't sound so cheery, you old fool! I suppose you're enjoying all of this "end of the world" nonsense, aren't you?'

'"Nonsense"? Mrs Hudson, this is a serious situation. London is so densely populated as to be highly unsafe.'

'Why are the police telling us to stay indoors, then?'

Lestrade could be heard faintly in the background, saying 'because they have no bloody idea what they're doing.'

'Most people do not have the privilege of access to a safe location, like I do,' Mycroft continued. 'For them, staying indoors is the safest option. I am offering you the chance of survival, Mrs Hudson. I wouldn't pass it up.'

'Don't you threaten me-'

'I am merely stating fact. The helicopter will be with you in half an hour. Pack warm clothes.'

'Don't you tell me what to pack. Say goodbye to John and Sherlock for me.'

'Goodbye, Mrs Hudson-'

She'd hung up.


	13. Chapter 13

_Eyes closed, hands clasped together, hasn't moved an inch in the last hour._ Mycroft sighed. _Still, I might as well ask-_

'No.'

'Sherlock-'

'It's hardly your idea of fun, either.'

Mycroft couldn't deny that, at least.

'Everyone else is playing.'

'Even Moriarty?'

Mycroft shook his head, and then remembered that Sherlock couldn't see him. 'We're playing with real money...'

Sherlock scoffed.

'We could turn it into a game of Russian Roulette,' Moriarty drawled, sitting down next to Sherlock and putting his feet in the other man's lap. Sherlock didn't react. 'Might spice things up a little.'

'I'm not playing.'

Moriarty rolled his eyes, snapping the gum he was chewing. 'Not even if I say _please_?'

'C'mon, Sherlock, play for a little while,' Lestrade called from the kitchen. 'It'll be fun!'

'We have very different ideas of fun,' Sherlock muttered.

John walked over and surveyed his friend. 'There's no point trying to cajole him,' he said to Mycroft. 'But I expect you knew that already.'

'Games are so _ordinary_ ,' Moriarty sighed, running a hand through Sherlock's hair.

Mycroft could feel the tension radiating off John. Sherlock still hadn't moved from his Thinking Position.

Moriarty leaned in close and brought his lips up to Sherlock's ear. Mycroft couldn't hear or read what he was saying, but it made Sherlock smile, which in turn made Mycroft _worry_.

Sherlock opened his eyes and pushed Moriarty's legs onto the floor. 'We're going out,' he announced, standing up.

Mrs Hudson looked up from her newspaper. 'You're spending time alone with that- that creature? Oh, Sherlock!'

'Don't go, Sherlock,' Molly said, Monopoly money in hand. 'Please.'

'Where are you going, Boss?' Moran asked, pausing in setting up the game.

'We'll find somewhere nice,' Moriarty said to Sherlock.

Mycroft studied the consulting criminal's profile, searching for the outline of a gun. It would be unlike the man to kill Sherlock without some kind of elaborate plan, but still.

'Enjoy yourself,' he said to his brother, wondering if this was the last time he'd see him alive.


End file.
